


The Wolves of Eos

by Lynda_Carraher



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Action/Adventure, Gen, Mind Meld, Rescue, Romance, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-27 01:25:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19780384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynda_Carraher/pseuds/Lynda_Carraher
Summary: The Enterprise becomes involved with a Romulan-backed rebellion on a non-allied planet and Spock finds himself intrigued by the planet's fierce telepathic princess.





	The Wolves of Eos

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Star Trek is the property of Paramount/Viacom. This story is the property of and is copyright (c) 1972 by Lynda Carraher. Originally published in Spin Dizzie #2, Marilyn Johansen, editor. Rated PG.
> 
> This was my very first fan fiction. No excuses ... it is what it is.

The Grand Vizier’s face was somber as he toyed with his untouched goblet. “The situation, as you can see – and hear – gentlemen, is extremely unstable. Even now there is rioting in the streets. The rebels have planted their evil seeds well.”

It was true. The angry murmur that wafted through the grilled windows made the skin on Kirk’s neck crawl. It was a steady rumble, like surf, that peaked now and then, only to be capped by an ominous report as a palace guard discharged a weapon. There would be a rash of angry shouts, then silence for a few moments before the tide of sound again began to grow.

“You understand, Your Excellency, that we are not able to intervene without specific orders from Starfleet Command. Your call was for medical aid. Could you be more specific?”

“Of course. If you will come with me, Captain.” The Vizier rose.

“I would prefer that Dr. McCoy and Mr. Spock accompany me. It is their skills you will need, not mine.”

The Vizier again inclined his head, his eyelids with their epicanthic fold effectively masking any emotions he might have revealed with his violet eyes. As he led them from the reception area, he began to speak again.

“It is not generally known outside of Eos that Matriarch Minyat died suddenly seven days ago.”

Kirk caught Spock’s quick glance and knew that his First Officer was thinking the same thing. Minyat had been a valuable ally in this quadrant. “My sympathies, Your Excellency,” he said automatically, his mind already beginning to sort out the repercussions of this event. “And the succession?”

“The Princess Kyra.” The Vizier waved aside the two armed guards and opened an elaborately scrolled door.

The room was square and windowless. The walls shimmered with pearlescence. It was empty except for a narrow bed, crystal-domed and resting on a solid base. Under the dome was the slim body of a young woman, draped in a robe the color of garnets.

Kirk felt the warning prickle again as he stepped into the room. This was not Minyat who lay in state, though the lines of the face, with its high cheekbones and aquiline nose could have been those of Minyat 20 years ago. If this was the heir to the throne, and if she, too, was dead… He became aware that McCoy was muttering something.

“What is it, Bones?”

“A Steinmetz unit. I haven’t seen one since med school. The life-support systems are in the base, and the dome controls the atmosphere. It’s a real antique.”

“Dr. McCoy,” the Vizier was saying, “your patient. The Princess Kyra.” He raised the cover and stepped aside as McCoy freed his instruments.

McCoy’s sense of medical propriety was immediately outraged. “This woman belongs in a proper hospital.”

The Vizier made a conciliatory gesture. “In the interests of avoiding panic, we felt this was preferable. Our physicians felt everything could be done as well here.”

Kirk could feel McCoy’s displeasure, could see it in the medic’s scowl and in his abrupt gestures. The unit looked uncomfortably like a coffin. It seemed to be an unspoken reminder of what awaited the patient if the physician’s skills fell short.

“How long has she been like this?”

“Five days, Doctor. We were in Council, discussing the formal Accession to the Matriarchy when she was overcome. Therein lies the crux of our problem. Because of the suddenness of Matriarch Minyat’s death, no provision had been made for Princess Kyra’s immediate accession. Since the ceremony has not been performed, we are technically without a leader. If the Princess were dead, it would take months to unscramble the claims to the throne, and in the meantime, I would act as Regent. But as you can see, she is neither dead nor alive – in the sense of being able to govern. A certain troublemaker called Rashad has seized the opportunity to circulate inflammatory rumors. If the Princess is not restored to health soon, he will use the situation to pursue his own claim to the throne – which is not without a certain validity.”

“How is that?” Kirk asked.

“He is of the House of Letró, which was deposed when the Matriarch came to power.”

“But that was over 200 years ago. Old feuds must run deep on Eos.”

“Indeed,” Spock said. “It was 247 planetary years ago, to be exact. Matriarch Minyat was twelfth of the line. I believe the House of Letró has been an active underground force ever since.”

“They have a new name now. The closest translation I can make would be ‘The Wolves of Eos’.” The Vizier’s own elongated canine teeth gleamed with the same pearlescence as the walls. “And wolves they are indeed.”

McCoy was repacking his medical kit. “Jim, we’ll have to take her back to the ship. I can’t tell much here, except that she is in a deep comatose state.”

Spock looked up from his tricorder. “That may not be necessary, Doctor. I would suggest – ”

His words were cut off as an explosion rocked the room, the concussion throwing him hard against the base of the bed. Kirk’s shout – “Get the Princess!” – met him as he was regaining his feet, and he pulled the inert form up as he vaulted the bed and put its heavy base between them and the rubble. He thumbed his phaser to stun and came up aiming at the first of the four men bursting through the door.

Captain Kirk was propped on one elbow, his torso and legs buried beneath a pile of rubble, but he had his weapon free and downed the leader. Spock shifted his aim to the second man and saw him collapse as the beam hit him. McCoy accounted for the third at the same instant, and the fourth attacker dived out of the carnage and disappeared down the dust-filled corridor.

Spock and McCoy reached Captain Kirk at the same instant, but he waved them away. “The Princess?”

“She is safe,” Spock assured him. “The Vizier was not so fortunate.” He gestured toward the crumpled form of the old man.

McCoy lifted him gently, knowing as he did so that the statesman was beyond caring. He shook his head, looking at the Captain. “He caught the main force of the blast, Jim. What about you?”

“Get these blocks off me and we’ll see.” Kirk pulled himself out as his companions lifted the heavy stones.

“Can you walk?”

“With a little assistance, Bones. Let’s get out of here. With the Princess.” He pulled his communicator from his belt and blew the dust off it.

“I fear that will not be effective, Captain,” Spock said.

Kirk frowned as nothing but static responded to his keying. “The blast must have damaged it.”

“No. There is a force field operating here. I picked up the readings on my tricorder just before the explosion.”

“How extensive?”

The Vulcan shook his head. “Insufficient data.” He picked up what was left of the instrument. “And there is no way to determine that now.”

“We’ll have to head back for the courtyard where we beamed down. Bones, give me a hand. Spock, you bring the Princess.”

The corridor was empty except for the bodies of the two guards. They started for the courtyard when another massive explosion rocked the palace.

“That must be the main gate. Things are going to get very busy around here.” Kirk keyed the communicator again as the rounded a corner. Still no response.

Angry shouts and the sound of fighting moved toward the end of the hallway and they dodged into the nearest doorway.

“The window!”

They slipped behind the heavy draperies, only to find another of the ornate grilles barring their way. Kirk drew his phaser. “Eos will no doubt send me a bill,” he said as he aimed the weapon toward the bars.

“Wait!” Spock pulled the draperies across them, motioning for silence as someone entered the room. Through the angry confusion of rebel voices, he felt the small stirrings of the Princess’s shoulders as she began to awaken. He found himself looking into her amethyst eyes and felt her tense to struggle away.

Without conscious thought, he shot her a silent message – //Quiet.// Her quick glance could not have told her much of the situation, but she relaxed against him, closing her eyes. Only a subtle shift in the way her weight rested against him told him she had not fainted.

Two rebels were arguing loudly in Eosian. From the sounds of furniture being overturned, it was impossible to tell if they were searching or looting. A third voice barked a sharp order at them and they left, one of them muttering in a tone that needed no translation.

McCoy allowed himself the luxury of a sigh as they left. “Let’s get with it before they come back.” His own phaser and Kirk’s made short work of the grille and Spock followed them out the window, careful of his burden. Still the girl did not move, though he knew she was conscious.

Kirk keyed the communicator and was rewarded by its chittering as he made contact.

“Scott here.”

“Four to beam up, Scotty. One’s a double.” The last thing he saw before he shimmered out was a party of red-coated men entering the courtyard from the opposite side.

# # #

The adrenalin was still pumping as they reformed inside the _Enterprise_. Kirk limped to the wall speaker and ordered Yellow Alert, shields up, as a precautionary measure.

McCoy caught at his arm as he went through the doorway. “Sickbay, Jim. The _Enterprise_ will hold until we get you patched up. Bring the Princess down, too, Spock.”

//Not yet,// Spock signaled her, confident that she was receiving at least part of his thoughts. //I did not know Eosians were telepaths.//

//An acquired skill.// The words seemed to form inside his skull, but he had no time to ponder on the ease with which he read her, for now the thought was querulous, impatient. //What’s going on?//

//Later.// He shifted her to a more comfortable position and felt the soft breath at the base of his throat. It was not an entirely unpleasant sensation. It was almost with reluctance that he placed her on the bed in Sickbay.

McCoy was sealing the edges of an ugly gash on Kirk’s calf. “I’ve been busy, Mr. Spock. Are you all right?” he asked without looking up.

“Yes, Doctor. The Captain?”

“Well, he won’t be running the high hurdles today.”

“I see no reason why the Captain should wish to engage in such an activity at this time.”

McCoy turned toward the other bed, giving Spock a pained look. “You never miss a chance, do you, Spock?” He pulled an instrument tray to hand. “Now, let’s see what we have here.”

“That won’t be necessary, Doctor. The Princess is quite recovered.”

“I am indeed,” she said, sitting up. “Now, would someone please tell me what is going on?” She smoothed her robes with the suavity of a cat grooming itself.

McCoy’s mind stuttered over several comments, but none seemed appropriate. Kyra did indeed appear in perfect Eosian health. The amethyst eyes, beneath the epicanthic lids, were clear. As she brushed back the long silver hair, her hand with its slender fingers was steady.

“Well?” she said. The pleasantness in her voice was countered by the glimpse of the sharp canines.

Captain Kirk pushed himself up on the bed and gave McCoy a shrug. Spock did not need to be telepathic to read the look Kirk gave him. _Answers, Spock_ , it demanded.

“The force field that I detected was operating on the same frequency as deep Delta waves in the Eosian brain. The fact that it interfered with our communicators was coincidental. It was not intense enough to cause loss of consciousness; therefore other Eosians could enter the room and not be affected. However, it was strong enough to maintain unconsciousness if one were already in that state. I assume the Princess was drugged long enough for her to be placed there.”

“The wine steward,” Kyra said. “He stumbled against me in the Council room. I started to reprimand him, and the next thing I knew, your Vulcan friend was carting me off to his cave.”

“Vulcans do not inhabit caves, Your Highness,” Spock corrected her gently.

“Forgive me. I forget the literal-mindedness of your race.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Now. What is the meaning of this outrage? Who are you, where am I, and what is going on?”

Kirk swung himself off the bed, still limping slightly. “Captain James T. Kirk, Your Highness. This is Dr. McCoy and my Science Officer, Mr. Spock. You are aboard the Federation Starship _Enterprise_. We brought you here because The Wolves of Eos were rapidly reducing your palace to rubble.”

Surprise showed only for an instant before the royal mask again covered Kyra’s face. “The Wolves – Rashad. Who told you of them?”

“Might I suggest that we would be more comfortable elsewhere?” Kirk began.

“Might I suggest that I am not moving one centimeter until you start at the beginning, Captain? Perhaps the Vulcan’s logic can clarify the situation. Mr. Spock?”

Spock told himself that he was not enjoying the Captain’s slow burn, and began with the signal from Eos requesting medical assistance. The Princess nodded and began to relax. Spock could not read her thoughts, but could sense they were flitting like sparks, melding what he was telling her with what she already knew of the situation on her home planet. When he relayed the news of the Vizier’s death, she bit at her lower lip, the elongated incisors showing briefly before she composed herself.

“I see,” she said when he had finished. “Rashad and his Wolves no doubt hold the palace by now. I hope most of my people there managed to get out.” She slipped off the bed and faced Kirk, her eyes on a level with his own. “Captain, I am making formal request for Federation aid.”

“Your Highness, I can’t do that without specific orders from Starfleet. You know we are not permitted to intervene in internal planetary affairs.” He crossed to the wall speaker. “Kirk to bridge. Situation report.”

“All quiet, Captain,” Scotty’s voice came back. “No indication of attack or pursuit from Eos.”

“Hold the conn, Scotty. I’ll be returning in a few minutes.”

“Captain Kirk!” Kyra’s voice was sharp. “You can hardly consider this an internal affair when Rashad’s Wolves are receiving hardware and military advice from the Romulans.”

“We saw no indication of Romulans,” the Captain said carefully. One did not lightly accuse an Eosian princess of lying.

“They are there,” she replied steadily. She had dropped a curtain across both her eyes and her thoughts, and Spock could not tell if she was bluffing.

_Knight to Queen’s rook,_ he thought irrelevantly. _I’d like to play chess with this one._

//Done,// she shot back, and gave him a faintly amused look. //But not now, Vulcan.//

He quirked an eyebrow and gave her a slow nod of acquiescence.

“Captain?” Scott’s voice held a soft urgency. “You’d best get up here. There’s a Romulan vessel approaching on an intercept course.”

“I’m on my way.” He keyed the intercom shut and started for the door. Halfway through, he turned. “Your request is granted, Princess.”

# # #

The Romulan vessel loomed large on the viewscreen as Kirk entered the bridge with Spock and Kyra trailing. Spock took his station at the computer screen and Kyra hovered midway between him and Uhura. She scanned the efficient motions of the bridge crew and her face registered approval.

“Condition Red. Lock phasers on the Romulan and assume battle status. Lieutenant Uhura, open a hailing frequency to the Romulans.” Kirk appeared to notice the Eosian for the first time. “Non-essential personnel must leave the bridge during Condition Red.”

“Hailing frequency open, Captain,” Uhura reported. She was studying Kyra as she spoke. Grapevine gossip about the princess had already reached the bridge. _I’d hate to be on her list_ , she thought, noting the typical Eosian canines and the strong curving nails. _That’s a very tough-looking cookie._ The amethyst eyes locked onto Uhura’s own dark ones, and then a peculiar look of satisfaction stole across the princess’s face. Uhura shrugged it off and repeated that the hailing frequency was open.

Kirk glared at Kyra, who showed no inclination to remove herself from the bridge, decided to let it pass for the moment, and keyed open the speaker button. “Romulan vessel. This is the Federation Starship _Enterprise_. You are violating Federation air space. Lower your shields and prepare to be taken into tow.”

The response, as expected, was a blast from the ship’s phaser banks. The bridge bucked under them, but immediate damage reports indicated no disturbance of the _Enterprise_ ’s systems. Kyra had been thrown off her feet by the blast, but Spock hauled her up and planted her firmly in his own chair.

“Fire phasers,” Kirk ordered.

The viewscreen showed the hit, deflected by the Romulan’s own screens. The ship banked sharply and retreated beyond phaser range, holding its position.

“Standard procedure,” Kirk muttered under his breath. He swiveled around in his chair. “Your Highness, you were ordered to leave the bridge.”

Kyra could feel his thoughts, sharp as broken glass. She had defied him in his holy of holies, and he was furious. She knew now that not all the _Enterprise_ crew was telepathic, for Uhura had not responded to her own sharp challenge. The Captain was still glaring at her, still angry.

“My apologies, Captain. Will we be fired on again?”

“It’s not likely, but the Red Alert still stands. You must leave the bridge, for your own safety.”

“I’d like to return to Eos. With the assistance you promised me.”

“That’s not possible right now. We can’t transport with the deflector shields up. If we lowered them, the Romulan sensors would lock onto the transport beam and they’d skewer us like a butterfly on a pin.”

She bit at her lower lip. “So I’m trapped here.”

“If you wish to think of it like that.”

“How else can I think of it? My government is falling, my military forces are leaderless, and my people are undergoing a blood bath while you sit here in your tin-plated toy—” She reeled back in the chair, hit by the overwhelming anger in every mind on the bridge. She had underestimated the vitality of this crew and their feeling for their ship. She would not make that mistake again.

“Again, Captain, I apologize. I was angry. But you must see my position. Even a small landing party with hand weapons would be immensely valuable. Can’t you attack the Romulans, take evasive action – something?”

She looked from Kirk to Spock, but the Vulcan was feeding something concerning Eos into the main computer banks and his mind was such a scramble she couldn’t make it out. The Captain’s anger was ebbing; he was going through alternatives and rejecting them as soon as they showed their flaw. He would not risk an all-out attack on the Romulan vessel until he knew their strength in the quadrant. If he engaged full power on the Romulan, he did so at the cost of the _Enterprise_ ’s weaponry. They would be easy prey for any other Romulan in the area for hours.

A thought hit her with such force she knew it had to be the Vulcan’s. “The moons!” she said, looking at him. He gave her a quick nod.

“Captain – the two moons of Eos are nearing conjunction,” Spock said. “If we maintain our present orbit but increase our speed by 14.9 percent, their orbital path will cross between ours and the Romulan’s in three point two hours. The shielding effect should allow us to lower our deflectors long enough to beam a small party to the planet’s surface and reassume battle status before the Romulans can maneuver around the obstruction.”

Kirk was nodding slowly. “All right. Sulu, increase orbit speed 14.9 percent.” He keyed open the speakers and reduced alert status to Yellow. “Ensign Graham, show the Princess to the briefing room. Your Highness, if you will prepare a list of personnel and hardware you need, I’ll go over it with you later.”

“Captain, I think it would be more efficient if someone familiar with our capabilities assisted the Princess.”

“Are you volunteering, Spock?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Very well.” He swiveled in the chair to watch them as they left the bridge. If it had been anyone but Spock, he thought reflectively, he’d have said there was a little … chemistry … going on there. He pushed the notion from his mind. “Lieutenant Uhura, open a channel to Starfleet. I think we need to apprise them of the situation on Eos.”

# # #

Spock seated himself at the computer console viewer in the main briefing room and requested a quick scan of the _Enterprise_ ’s mobile armaments. He waved Kyra to a chair.

“I think it would be wise to concentrate on easily portable hardware,” he said. “Preliminary data indicate we will have time for only one beam-down before the Romulans can counter our maneuver. Additional forces and materiel will have to wait until we can determine the extent of Romulan strength in the area. What goes down stays down indefinitely.” He was making some quick notes on a padd. “What is the status of your military organization on Eos?” He looked up at Kyra for the first time since entering the room.

She sat with her elbows propped on the table, forehead resting on her interlocked hands. She shook her head vaguely and bit at her lower lip. He realized her mind was in total chaos. He could identify confusion, near-panic, and for the first time, a tremendous vulnerability.

“Too fast,” she said softly. “I just don’t know.”

Spock pushed himself back from the console, berating himself for forgetting that this was not a Starfleet Commander he was working with; not a trained and experienced military mind, but only a young woman – a remarkable young woman, to be sure – but one whose frames of reference had all but been destroyed in a storm of death, betrayal, and rebellion.

If anyone had suggested that his next action was basically human, he would have countered that it was merely a habit assimilated unconsciously from his many years of living and working with human shipmates. He reached for the ever-present coffee carafe and poured two cups. He placed one softly near Kyra’s elbow. 

//Slow down,// he beamed to her. //Step back from it. You are letting events control you, and you must turn that around.//

“I know,” she said, and sat back in the chair, picking up the cup. “What is this?”

“A hot drink composed mainly of water, caffeine, trigonelline, chlorogenic acid, and tannin. It’s a mild stimulant much appreciated by humans.” He noted her wry face as she sipped it. “It is also, I fear, an acquired taste. Consider it medicinal.” He sipped at his own slowly, feeling the slowing of her thoughts.

She put her cup down and stared into nothingness. “Do you know what I was doing two – no, seven – days ago? I was on an archaeological dig a hundred kilometers from the capitol. I’m not a Matriarch, Mr. Spock! I’m a student – a ribbon-carrier at project openings – an ornament. There was no reason for me to expect accession for another decade, at least. I can’t do it!”

Spock swiveled the chair away from the computer console. He spoke slowly and with precision. “If that is indeed the case, Your Highness, then the only logical course is to do … nothing. Abdicate. Permit Rashad and his Wolves to rule Eos. There are many places of sanctuary in the Federation. The _Enterprise_ would transport you to the one of your choice.” He watched as she straightened in her chair and turned toward him, eyes snapping. She slammed her palm on the table and stood up, shaking in anger.

“How dare you make such a suggestion? The Matriarchs of Eos have never run from the attack of scum like Rashad. My mother died defending our traditions, and—” She stopped as her mind made contact with his. “You Vulcan sneak! You did that on purpose! You – you—” Her voice sputtered to a stop but she continued to berate him mentally.

Spock put up his hands in mock surrender. “Guilty, of everything you said and everything you are thinking. Be careful, Princess of Eos. I am not accustomed to such a mental barrage.”

She sat down and toyed with the coffee cup. “You’re very good at it, you know.”

“My abilities are quite insignificant compared to your own. I am primarily a touch-telepath. Without that link, I cannot read one who has no power.”

“Your captain – is he also a telepath?”

Spock thought it over carefully. “That is difficult to answer. On a very subliminal level, perhaps. Humans tend not to develop any inherent skills in this matter, yet the best of their leaders make use of it, whether they admit its existence – or are even aware of it. Captain Kirk often anticipates actions, rather than receiving literal thoughts. He calls it ‘playing hunches’, and his percentage of accuracy is really quite remarkable.”

She studied him for a moment. “You admire him, don’t you?”

“Very much so.”

“And yet you are very much alone here, among these humans.”

Spock was becoming uncomfortable. He thought purposefully of bees and turned again to the computer console.

“Don’t shut me out, Spock,” she said softly. “I’m alone, too. I need your strength.”

He refused to acknowledge what she was thinking, refused to answer the intimation that was below the level of her words. “You are permitting your emotions to run away with you, Princess.”

“No,” she said. Time seemed to have slowed down around her, and for the first time since awakening in Spock’s arms, her mind and body were functioning at their normal speed. He had his back to her; she could see his shoulder blades working against the cloth of his shirt and sensed the power of his body as well as that of his mind. She clenched her hands together to stop their shaking.

“I prefer to call it intuition, Mr. Spock. From the first instant your mind made contact with mine, it was like … a completion. Like an alloy of two metals to form the perfect cutting edge of a weapon. Think about it. I was coming awake in a situation I knew nothing about, finding myself in darkness, under the control of a person whose intentions were unknown to me. In accepting that control, I might have been placing myself in mortal danger. Is that logical?”

“I have long since ceased to expect logic from non-Vulcans.” His voice was tired.

She tried to read him, but he was thinking of bees again, in control, the thoughts of tiny insect bodies shielding his other thoughts. It was like trying to communicate with a blank wall. She turned away, collecting her own thoughts. Very well. No more open doors. She threw up her own mental defenses and turned back to the Vulcan, taking a chair next to his.

“I’ll tell you as much of the military situation as I know. I would appreciate any suggestions you might make.”

He did indeed have a number of suggestions to make, and when Captain Kirk joined them, they would have a working list of manpower and hardware to submit for his approval.

# # #

Jim Kirk decided he could allow himself the luxury of a cup of coffee before his meeting with Spock and Kyra, and he detoured to McCoy’s office for it, as Bones always seemed to have the best brew on the ship.

McCoy himself was already indulging, and he waved Kirk to a chair with a friendly gesture. Without being asked, he drew a second cup and pushed it across the desk.

“Just the man I wanted to see, Jim. I heard about what happened on the bridge, and I’ve been sitting here trying to figure out what’s going on between Kyra and our pointy-eared friend.”

“Going on? As in … _going on?”_ He drew the cup toward him with a grin. “You old gossip-monger.” He took a sip reflectively. “You know, if the Federation could duplicate the grapevine we’ve got on this ship, they’d put every telecom station in the Fleet out of business. Think of the savings to the taxpayers.”

“Mmm. Well, _something’s_ going on. He’s looked like the cat that ate the canary ever since we beamed up. That girl knew what was going on a long time before she sat up in Sickbay like some Lazarus. Just how long, I don’t know. But Spock does, and he’s not telling.”

“Could be.”

“If you ask me, I think he’s got a Prince Charming complex,” McCoy grumbled. “Snatching the beautiful princess from the jaws of death, fighting off assassins with one hand, leaping out of windows. That’s pretty heady stuff.”

Kirk chuckled. “It is, isn’t it? All he needed was a suit of armor and a white charger.” The image overcame him and he laughed out loud. “But I think you’re barking up the wrong Prince Charming. Not Spock. Not any Vulcan.”

“Not even a half-human one?”

“Bones, you’re an incurable romantic.” Kirk stretched in his chair, then stood up. “Thanks for the coffee. And, listen – if you see any white chargers running around, send them up to the main briefing room, will you?”

# # #

Kirk glanced quickly over the list Spock handed him. “Two beamdowns? You said we would only have time for one.”

“Only one with any certainty. Personnel first, with sidearms. We can attempt heavy equipment on the second. If it becomes necessary to abort, there would be no loss of life.”

Kirk studied the list of personnel. Kyra herself, Mr. Scott, Doctor M’Benga, Lieutenants Rodriguez and Stacy, specialists in tactics and weaponry, respectively. He tapped the list. “There are only five here. You’re not going to beam down with one platform empty?”

“I had assumed, Captain, that you would also wish to be included in the party,” Spock said.

“Not with this Yellow Alert apt to turn Red on us at any minute.” Kirk looked at his First Officer curiously. Spock would have known that. “I assume you have made alternate choices.”

Before Spock could answer, Kyra broke in. “I should like to have Mr. Spock accompany the party,” she said.

Spock stiffened slightly but did not respond. Kirk was puzzled. Something was definitely going on here, but the relationship between Spock and Kyra, whatever it was, had changed subtly since the pair left the bridge. He scanned the room, but the only indications it had been in use at all were the two chairs positioned at the computer console and the two coffee cups on the table. Coffee cups? That was most unlike Spock. He realized they were waiting for his response. Spock was not going to volunteer this time. It would have to come from Kirk. The Vulcan’s face told him nothing – but then, it seldom did.

“Very well. Mr. Spock will accompany you. What are your plans?”

“We will beam down near the military encampment at Kiqué, It is the strongest of our fortifications and 20 kilometers from the capitol. Once we are more aware of the situation, we can make further plans.”

“We’ve been monitoring communications on your planet, Princess. The situation isn’t good. The capitol has fallen. Rashad seems to be in control of the public communications network as well. Thirty minutes ago, we lost all contact with your military forces. They simply broke off in the middle of their messages.”

Kyra paled and her hands closed convulsively on the arms of the chair. “Not all of them. They can’t be gone. Not all of them.”

Spock was nodding, almost to himself. “Have Mr. Chekov scan the tapes of those signals, Captain. If all military signals ceased simultaneously—”

“They did.”

Then it sounds like a Romulan gamma block. They have used that technique often enough to jam communications.”

Kirk relayed the message, then summoned the requested personnel to the briefing room and gave them their orders. He suggested that Scott escort Kyra and the landing party to the Office’s Mess for a quick meal. They had less than two hours before beamdown.

“Mr. Spock, I’d like to speak to you,” he said as the group was dismissed. The Vulcan had not spoken since his recommendation about the communications, nor did he speak now. He was standing in a militarily correct parade-rest posture, eyes front.

Kirk pulled one of the chairs from the computer console and sat down. He crossed his arms over his chest and tilted the chair back slightly, waiting. “Well?”

“I am here at your request, Captain.”

“Get off that Vulcan high horse and sit down. And don’t tell me Vulcans don’t have horses. You know what I mean.” There was a slight relaxation in Spock’s face as he sat.

“Would you prefer not to be included in the mission?”

“I have no preference in the matter. Princess Kyra requested my presence and you agreed.”

“And I can damn well _un_ -agree. Now what’s going on between you and that white-haired she-cat?”

There was a slight pause before Spock answered; a pause as telling as his words. “It’s personal, Jim. I would prefer not to discuss it.”

Kirk raised an eyebrow in an unconscious imitation of Spock’s standard expression of surprise. When the Vulcan unbent enough to use his first name, it was as revealing as a scream would have been from any other crewman. Kirk knew he was as close to Spock as any human could be to a Vulcan, and part of that closeness was his innate respect for his friend’s almost pathological need for privacy.

“Is it serious enough to threaten the success of the mission?”

“No. As First Officer, I am the logical person to complete the landing party.”

“And to keep Princess Kyra out of trouble. That’s what I really want you to do down there, since she insists on beaming down. Just what are the odds on your accomplishing anything significant?”

“Insufficient data. We are going in blind.”

“I just hope you don’t beam yourself into a hornet’s nest.”

Spock’s features arranged themselves into the sardonic expression that was as close as he ever came to a smile. “I believe the proper metaphor would be ‘into a wolf’s den’, Captain.”

# # #

Was it indeed a wolf’s den? There was no way as yet for Spock to determine that, so he signaled for the others to close ranks around the hooded figure of Kyra.

Their choice of coordinates had been … unfortunate, to say the least. They had materialized before the alarmed eyes – and unchallengeable phaser – of a lone sentry. His uniform was that of Matriarchal forces, but that had no meaning in the early hours of rebellion. Friend and foe needed to be sorted out by more discerning criteria.

The sentry spat something in Eosian which obviously meant ‘One move and I’ll splatter you all over the landscape’ – or something similarly inhospitable. Spock was beginning to fully appreciate the psychological value of the enlarged canine teeth of the race. Braced in the gathering gloom, glaring at them over the weapon, he looked particularly ferocious.

Not ferocious enough for Scott, who tensed behind Spock’s shoulder. “We’ll ne’er get better odds, lad,” he whispered.

Spock shook his head, wanting the sentry to see it. “Not worth the risk, Mr. Scott.” As they moved away under the sentry’s gesture, Spock shifted his position on the fringes of the group to keep himself between the soldier and Kyra, watching the man carefully. He felt a hand touch his own and knew from the shape of the fingers that it was Kyra’s. He couldn’t tell if she was seeking reassurance or offering it, but he unthinkingly returned the gesture in the Vulcan tradition, pressing his first and second fingers across her two upturned ones.

Spock noted the layout of the compound as they approached, and he knew that Rodriguez was doing the same. It was in an excellent defensive position, atop a rise amid an arid, flat landscape. He saw the armed warheads, doubtless heat-seekers, poised outward and upward against air attack, and the phaser cannons mounted evenly around the perimeter. As they entered the compound, he saw still-smouldering wreckage of several aircars and a few of the lumbering tanks, and sensed Scott’s barely audible groan. The engineer took the destruction of any machinery as a personal affront.

They were turned over to the less-than-tender ministrations of an armed squad and the sentry returned to his post after a brief exchange with the squad’s leader, who led them past several buildings before they entered a squat, windowless one crawling with soldiers.

Even after they were left alone and disarmed in a small room, Spock cautioned them with a gesture at the light source. They were surely being observed.

They did not have a long wait. The woman who entered the room was tall, even for an Eosian, and her face was darkened and lined from years of exposure to the harsh sun of Eos. She moved with a sureness of command that made the insignia on her dark tunic superfluous.

“If you come with a message from that traitorous Rashad, Romulan,” she said to Spock, “there will be no answer. Except, perhaps, for the return of your remains. In a very small box.” She illustrated its size with sharp gestures of her capable-looking hands.

Kyra pushed forward, tossing back the hood of the robe. “P’lef!” she said joyfully.

“Princess!” The woman was stunned for a moment, then she dropped to one knee and turned her palms up. “The Wolves are saying—”

“They lie, Commander,” she said, touching the upturned palms. “And this is no Romulan. He is Spock, from the Federation Starship _Enterprise_. He freed me from the palace – and the deathsleep, as well as true death in the explosion.”

The Commander stood, and bowed her head briefly to the Vulcan. “My apologies. I was told – that imbecile Barak! I’ll have his head!”

“No,” Kyra said. “We deceived him – until we could be sure. Have we so many lieutenants that we can afford to save the Wolves the trouble of executing them?”

“No, Princess, we have not. There was much sedition in the ranks. We incurred sabotage, even here, but the traitors have fled – those who were left alive. The other emplacements – communication has been disrupted, but I would estimate that we still have 70 percent of our forces. The Wolves are blocking our telescreens, somehow, and they control the public ones entirely.”

“Then they do hold the capitol?”

“Completely. When the palace fell to them, the rest of the city followed like a ripe sarov from the vine.”

“And the Senate?”

“It was meeting when the attack came on the palace. They are in hiding – or in prison – or dead.”

Kyra was visibly shaken. She would have swayed but for Spock’s firm hand on her arm. “Then – what can we do?” Her voice was almost a whisper.

“We can fight,” the Commander said, in a tone that brooked no argument. “And with your presence known, we can drive them into the sea.”

“Then you are planning an offensive?” Spock asked.

The Commander fixed him with a violet stare for a microsecond. Then, very subtly, she acknowledged his power here. “I was called from a strategy meeting,” she said.

“Then I suggest you return, along with Lieutenant Rodriguez. We are here to offer Federation assistance, if you desire it.”

“If we desire it?” Her tone told him that even the formality of the offer had been unnecessary. “We are slaughtered for lack of it.”

“I think we can even the odds somewhat, Commander. Engineer Scott and Lieutenant Stacy should be assigned to your vehicles. The should be able to patch together what is not entirely destroyed, and arm it. There is also the possibility that some additional hardware was beamed down from the _Enterprise_ near where we were picked up.”

“I’m afraid no’, Mr. Spock,” Scotty cut in. “I saw the transmission begin, and then break up. I hope it was because they were re-shielding, and no’ because of a Romulan knife in the ribs.”

“Agreed, Mr. Scott. Commander, what is your status on injuries?”

“Poor. We’re very short on personnel who can use what equipment we have.”

“Then Dr. M’Benga’s skill should prove useful. As for myself, if you would show me your communications center, I shall see what can be done there. We will meet later for a briefing.”

What could be done there, it seemed, was to show the Eosian Scan Engineer how to bypass a Romulan gamma block. Spock taped the block on his tricorder memory; if the Federation required further proof of Romulan interference, the gamma block was as distinctive as an Empire banner. Performing the bypass proved easier than explaining it, though, as the Scan Engineer spoke only Eosian, and the Universal Translator seemed stymied by finding Eosian vocabulary for the technical terms involved. Finally, in frustration, Spock called for the schematics and a stylus and laboriously traced out the whole process from initial power source to final transmission. Understanding finally dawned on the Scan Engineer’s feral face simultaneously with the dawn of what promised to be a long day.

Spock’s internal clock told him it was time for sleep, but he shut his mind to its insistence. The grainy-eyed Scott who waited in the quarters assigned to them had obviously had no sleep, either. He poked listlessly at the plate on the table in front of him and looked longingly into a cup whose contents were obviously no more appealing.

Spock sat down across the table from him. “What is that?” he asked.

“I dinna ken, boyo, but it’s nae rrroast beef an’ single malt.” As always, in times of stress or fatigue his Caledonian burr rendered his speech nearly unintelligible. Spock often wondered what kept Scott’s Universal Translator from melting down into smouldering slag at such times.

“Ye missed the briefing.”

“Unavoidable. Fill me in, Mr. Scott.”

“They’re madmen – the lot of ‘em. An’ I include that guttersnipe Rodriguez.” Scott’s disapproval of Rodriguez’ unorthodox tactics bordered on mania. He preferred the sweet cold efficiency of his machines to infiltration and street fighting. “D’ye ken wha’ they’re plannin’?”

“Mr. Scott, as you pointed out, I was not at the briefing. Therefore, I could not possibly know what they plan – madmen or not.”

Scott’s reply was cut off by a soft scratching at the door and the appearance of a messenger.

“Mr. Spock, the Princess wishes to see you.”

Kyra looked thoroughly replenished. She had traded the garnet robes for a short dark tunic that revealed long shapely legs. “I understand we’re back in business,” she said.

“We will be, when the couriers have contacted the other emplacements. If the distances given me were correct, telescreens will be fully functional in four point six hours.”

“Good.” She smiled in satisfaction and stepped toward him with two fingers outstretched.

He took half a step backward before he realized it, stiffening at her effrontery.

She dropped her hand, bewildered. “You are angry with me again.”

“Anger is both wasteful and illogical. Vulcans do not indulge in it.”

“Then why will you not touch my hand? You did last night.”

Did he? Unthinkable! But he had, he remembered. Even as he had done – the other. Touched her mind without express consent, not just once but many times. There was something in this girl, something reckless, something dangerous, that called like Odysseus’ siren to the human heritage he so relentlessly subdued. No one – not even Kirk – had ever come so close before.

“Well?”

“It was wrong. And a grave insult to you.”

“A simple touch? Why?”

“It is – improper, Your Highness. It is a form of Vulcan … embrace.” He took refuge again behind the thoughts of bees. He would not – could not – allow her to know the depth of his transgression. The touch was expressly forbidden, except between man and wife. And from one of his rank to one of hers – on Vulcan, the penalty in ancient times would have been death.

“And why will you not call me Kyra?”

Damn this girl! She was as persistent as a Kalonian gadfly!

“It would be – also improper.”

“But you did before. In your mind.”

“It was unforgiveable. As was the contact itself. I shall not repeat it, Princess.”

“Explain.” Her tone was all Matriarch now, and not to be denied.

“You say your skill is … acquired. How many others of your race share it?”

“None outside the Royal Family. It is, in fact, one of the skills which brought us to power. We can read almost anyone, especially if the emotions are strong. But being contacted purposefully by another mind – that is something I had always associated with family. I think that is why I trusted you. Now I feel that trust was betrayed.”

“If I have betrayed anything, it was my own heritage. Among even minimally telepathic races, there is the understanding that each person has a right to the privacy of his own thoughts. Invasion of those thoughts is a violation of the gravest kind. Therefore, the mind touch is forbidden without mutual consent.”

“Then I take it I no longer have yours.”

“It is no longer possible.”

This time she let it drop. “All right. But Spock – you have mine. For whenever it becomes … possible. Or necessary. And it may become so today.”

“I was not at the briefing. What is your plan?”

“Today, Mr. Spock, the Matriarch forces are going to retake the palace, the public telecom center, and the capitol. In that order.”

Impossible! Well, highly unlikely, anyway. Scotty was right. They were all mad.

“Your chances of success are extremely slim. The Wolves are strongly entrenched. And much more prepared, I think, than you realize. You must know by now that your mother’s death was not accidental. This has been long and well-planned.”

Her chin came up. “How do know that, Vulcan? Are you privy to Rashad’s plans?”

The intimation of treachery stung him. “It is only logical. The time span between the Matriarch’s assassination and the attack on the palace was too short for such an efficient coup to have taken place. Unless your own forces were far more hopelessly disorganized than they appear to be now.” He could sting, too, the Princess Kyra would find.

“Suppose they had intercepted the Vizier’s call for assistance?”

“It is quite likely that they did. It may have moved the timetable up by a few hours. Surely no more.”

She mulled this for a few seconds. “Are you never wrong, Spock?”

“An officer in my position is seldom permitted by circumstance to be wrong more than once.”

“Suppose this is that once.”

“Then your chances are improved. But not by much. How do you propose to take the palace when it lies within a city controlled by Rashad?”

“From within, of course. We haven’t the manpower to do so otherwise, at least not until communication is restored with our other forces. And every moment we delay permits the Wolves to become stronger. I believe there is a saying in the Federation to strike while the iron is hot.”

“That can result in burned fingers, Princess.”

“Or scorched Wolves. You will find that the Matriarchy planned its defenses well. There is a way into the palace from outside the capitol, and I know it. We can seize the control center in the palace and turn the weapons Rashad wrongly believes are his against his own forces from within while a second attack is mounted from outside the city.”

Spock nodded. He could see Rodriguez’ fine Latin hand in this. It would be a plan appealing to his heritage of sudden and violent revolution. “When do you plan this … exercise?”

She glanced past him at a timepiece mounted on the wall. “In exactly two hours. Which means we must start at once.”

“Then brief me on how the party is to get inside the palace. Lieutenant Rodriguez and I should be included.”

“I can do that on the way there, Spock. All you need to do is follow me.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Surely you do not intend—”

“I do. There are many … precautions … against unauthorized use of the passage. There is no time for me to explain them to another.” She started for the door. “If you wish to be included in this exercise, as you choose to call it, I suggest you summon your people. You will be picked up by an aircar in front of this building in exactly four minutes.” As she left, she did not slam the door. Not quite.

# # #

It was insufferably hot in the underground passage, and totally black except for the light sources which every third man carried. The air was fetid, and growing fouler with every step. The tunnel had not been meant for occupation by 30 men and women moving close together and sweating in apprehension.

“It’s not much farther,” Kyra said. “Wait.” She thrust her hand into a crevasse in the rock wall, as she had done a dozen times before on their slow journey. It was indistinguishable from any of the others that dotted the walls, but this one, like the others her hand had entered, held the disarming device for the noxious gases, explosive charges, or dropping impalers with which the Matriarchs had protected their hidden egress. Not sophisticated devices, Spock reflected, but deadly nonetheless.

“That was the last. This way.” She led them into a turning and up a flight of carved stone steps.

Rodriguez halted the procession and rebriefed everyone on their assignments. Stacy’s squad of 10 was to go directly for the armaments center, with five more under Rodriguez striking the adjoining telecom center. Spock and four others, Including Kyra, planned to attack the Matriarch’s chambers, where they expected to find Rashad. The other nine members of the group also understood their function. Simple muscle. Firepower. Meat for the Wolves, if it came to that; three of them for each strike force. Spock had seen them, before they entered the passage, forming a silent circle, palm against palm. No one needed to translate it for him – it was the Federation’s clasped forearms, the Romulan warrior gesture of crossed wrists, the ancient Earth gladiator’s salute of upraised sword. _If we are to die, brothers and sisters…_

Kyra keyed back a sliding panel revealing another steep and winding staircase. A grilled ventilation shaft let in a breath of fresh air and light and, more importantly, would allow them to see what lay beyond the panels before they emerged.

“Hardly a turbolift,” Rodriguez grumbled.

“And you’d better be damn glad of it, mister,” Stacy hissed at him. “How the hell would you propose to get 30 people onto two different levels simultaneously with one turbolift?”

_Score one for Stacy_ , Spock thought. Rodriguez was one of the best in his field, but he was thoroughly unlikeable.

Spock’s group went up the flight. Spock was ticking off seconds in his head, as he knew Rodriguez and Stacy were also doing as they descended toward their objectives.

Kyra signaled a halt at the second level. Through the grille, he could see a half-open doorway, flanked by two guards. They wore scarlet tunics, emblazoned with the head of an animal which greatly resembled a Vyalian wolf. Spock looked at Kyra, and she nodded. He placed a hand on her shoulder, and too late she realized his intent. The Vulcan nerve-pinch had her out in three seconds, but not before her mind screamed furiously at him. The burly sergeant Spock had spoken to earlier caught her as she sagged and carried her half a flight up. He would keep her safe there, or give up his life in the attempt.

Spock turned his attention to the grille, ready to move the panel when a flash of scarlet in the hallway stopped his hand. A third guard had approached the first two, wearing the expression of a man who has just heard an especially delectable off-color story. Which apparently he had, and which he proceeded to relate to the other two with many florid gestures and an acting out of the parts.

_By all the Devils of Deneb…_ He couldn’t delay any longer. _Jim will never forgive me, he thought, for not letting the poor beggar get to the punch line._

He keyed the panel, and as he did the alarm klaxon went off just inches from his head. Rodriguez? Or had he fumbled? It didn’t matter now, for the third guard, his story forgotten, sprinted toward his own abandoned station. One of the doormen disappeared into the room, pulling the door shut after him. Not so the other, but Spock stunned him with the phaser before he could cry out. He vaulted across the hallway, hugging flat to the wall, and saw the first of his squad score a direct hit on the third guard’s retreating back before he flanked the other side of the door.

Spock felt rather than heard the thudding footsteps approaching the door and realized too late that it opened _out,_ and he was on the hinged side. _Stupidity,_ he thought as he started to scuttle away. But the heavy panel crashed into his shoulder, knocking the phaser loose and sending him spinning. He dived for the nearest pair of legs and brought the Wolf down on top of him, clawing for the vulnerable spot as his own squad locked horns with the other guards. He saw one of his people vaporized, but she took her attacker with her. He sent a vicious chop into the Wolf’s neck, and jerked the phaser from the flaccid hand. Wolves. Great Cas, how many were there?

He sent the beam of the captured phaser into the back of a guard who was making for the closing panel. Two more guards fell, then the other woman in his squad. One of his men was being worked over expertly at the hands of a massive Wolf who apparently liked the crunch of bone better than the phaser’s clean annihilation. He aimed the phaser at the brutalizer, only to have it knocked cleanly from his hand – by the last member of his own squad. Treachery! Even here! He backhanded the man with every ounce of his Vulcan strength and clearly heard the neck snap before the traitor even hit the wall. Then something hit him from behind, and he had time only to register that it was not a phaser before a second blow followed and he pitched into blackness.

# # #

He felt the concern before he felt the hands; knew the hands before the voice confirmed it.

“Spock! Spock!”

“It is all right, Princess.” He sat up and looked around. They were in a small room with the spartan look of a cell. Afternoon sunlight filtered through the grilled window high on one wall. “Do you know where we are?”

“P’mie. It’s Rashad’s stronghold.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Interesting. How did he get out of the capitol?”

“Through the passage. One of his guards saw the panel closing. They killed Sergeant Bruni, and Rashad threatened to kill you if I didn’t show them the way.”

“You should have let him.”

“Spock!” There was pain in her voice, and accusation.

“The capitol has surely fallen, or we would still be there. You would,” he amended. “I should have been dead in any case, but Rashad would have had to use you to bargain his way out.”

“But I couldn’t let him—”

“Logic, Princess.”

“Damn logic! Some things are simply more important!”

Spock let her blasphemy pass. “The only important thing right now is getting you out of here.” He crossed to the window and pulled himself up to the narrow ledge. The drop was straight down, 12 meters or more. No vines, no ledges, no outcroppings of any kind. Scratch that idea. “How many men did Rashad bring with him?”

“Maybe a dozen.”

“And how many here?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. The place is huge. He could have a battalion, could have only half a dozen.”

“A battalion is hardly likely. I would estimate that most of his forces were in the city and the rest in the field.” He was prowling the room, looking for something. Anything. Surveillance devices. Potential weapons. Anything. “Could you get a reading on him? Was he confident? Angry?”

“I didn’t think to try. You have to tune so much out.” She sat down on the cot. “Let me think.” She stared at some mid-point in space and bit at her lower lip. “Something. It was a feeling. Like a fly buzzing.” After a moment, she shook her head. “It’s there, but I can’t pull it out.”

He watched her, thinking.

“What is this mind-meld you are thinking of, Vulcan?” She had picked it up, and again her voice was all Matriarch.

“It is a … tuning-down, if you will; an intensification of a memory that is present but buried. It is also highly enervating, and it can be extremely dangerous.”

She considered him calmly. “But the more you know about Rashad, the better our chances of getting out of here alive. Both of us.”

“Yes.”

“Then do it.”

He sat beside her on the cot, flexing his hands to loosen the muscles. “I will touch you,” he said. “Like this.” He put his fingertips on her temples. “Now close your eyes. Drift.” He felt her relaxing under his touch. “Listen to my voice. Only my voice. It is the center. There is nothing else. Float free. I will not let you go.” He felt the slow beat of her pulse; felt other things, too. Felt her emotions toward him. He did not wish to feel them; did not wish to admit he was capable of feeling them. He pushed past them, and then she was swinging free, unbound, tethered only by the tenuous touch of his fingers. “You are in the tunnel.”

“Yes.”

“Where is Rashad?”

“Behind me. Holding my arm. His hand is cold. Like death.”

“Are you frightened?”

“Yes.”

“No. Let go of it. Float.”

“I can’t. He will kill Spock.”

“Let go, Kyra! Drift. You are not frightened. Listen to Rashad. Listen to his thoughts. Can you feel them?”

“…a little…”

“Lock them in. Feel them in your own mind. They are stronger now. Feel them.”

“Yes.”

“What are they?”

“…danger … danger! They are like a flame! I can’t—”

“You can. The flame is cold. Pass through it. It will not harm you. I promise you this.”

She was gathering under his hands; he felt her shaking in concentration; felt her break through the flame.

“He is angry. And he is frightened. Lost. The passage frightens him.”

“Only the passage?”

“Yes – no. Must get out. Can’t breathe. Must get to P’mie. Safe at P’mie.”

“Safe how?”

“The battle. Away from the battle. Must think. Must regroup. Lost the troops in the capitol. Many dead. Many surrender. Safe at P’mie. Safe at P’mie.”

“Why is Rashad safe at P’mie?”

“Wolves. The pack will protect. Wolves.”

“How many?” He was rushing her now, pulling the whisper of Rashad’s thoughts from the deepest recesses of her memory in a link so faint it was almost nonexistent. He felt her mind spinning as surely as he felt the convulsive tremors of her body. If he lost the link now… “How many?”

“Ten. Ten Wolves and the Field. The Field. Not even a mouse… Safe at P’mie…”

It was enough. It had to be enough. He could not risk asking for more. His hold on her was too thin. “The flame is gone, Kyra. Dying. Sparking out. Only darkness now.”

“Darkness.”

“Drift.”

“Afraid. Spinning … cold…”

“No.” He felt the buffeting through his fingertips; felt her striving like a swimmer in heavy surf, with the waves tearing her from his grasp.

“Kyra!” he called. He let the other feelings come back. Wanted them back. Wanted her trust and despised himself for using it thus.

“Alone…”

“You are not alone. I am with you. We are the center, Kyra. We are one.” He felt her caring, felt her fear for him and her own fear of aloneness. He acknowledged her caring, met it with the caring of his own which had grown from the moment their minds had first touched. The wave-like buffeting was his own now, too, and he felt himself begin to shake. There was a surging, a roaring that came not from outside but from within his own being. Then it crested over them and broke, and they were both floating, swimmers in a secret sea, tumbling slowly, intertwined, through a wine-warm darkness.

“Float,” he said, and his hands echoed it. “Float. I have you. You are safe.”

“Safe.”

“Come back now. Feel your own body.”

“Yes.”

“Come back. Hear my voice.”

“Yes.”

Gently … gently. He moved his hands minutely, drawing away, drawing the thread so fine that neither of them could pinpoint the instant it snapped. He was drained. Empty. Had come so close to losing her in the black void of her own detached mind.

She leaned against him, and he could feel her pulse racing. She shuddered, and he put his arm around her, smoothing the hair off her face with his other hand. “It is all right now. It is all right. Sleep, Kyra. Rest.” He felt her slipping away into a sleep as deep as one drugged, and knew that her effort had been even greater than his own.

He looked up as the door slipped open.

“What a touching scene. It seems a shame to interrupt it. Would you prefer that I came back later?”

“I would prefer that you not come back at all.”

He laughed, exposing the sharp canines. It was not a pleasant sound. It was as if a great, dark, twisted tree had laughed in the teeth of a storm. He was a stocky, square man with a carefully trimmed short beard and an equally carefully trimmed mantle of menace wrapped around him like an invisible cloak. His dark and slanted eyes swept the room indolently. “My dear, gallant Mr. Spock. Are you never at a loss for words?”

“Seldom.”

He laughed again. “We shall see.” He strutted in the scarlet tunic, its metallic fibers catching the light like crushed rubies. The wolf’s head emblem on his chest seemed to breathe with a life of its own. “But forgive my rudeness. I am Rashad, of the House of Letró, and the rightful ruler of Eos. You and your associates were responsible for some slight inconvenience to me earlier today, but it is of no great importance now.” The man emanated danger, yet under it, buzzing like a fly in a bottle, was the almost palpable current of fear. That made him even more dangerous, more unpredictable.

Spock disentangled himself and moved away from Kyra. Two of the guards Rashad had brought shifted their positions silently, making him the apex of a deadly triangle. The third stood slightly behind Rashad, and his menacing bulk seemed somehow familiar.

“I assume you have a reason for coming here.” He must stall for time; time for strength to fill the hollowness of his body.

“I have a number of reasons, Mr. Spock, and they coincide quite nicely with your presence here.” He stroked his beard reflectively. “The first concerns … reparations … for damage you did to some property of mine. My nephew, in fact. He was one of my better agents.”

“If you are referring to the one in my squadron, I fear he was not a very good one. If he had been, he would have alerted you to the attack, and you would still be in control of the capitol.”

Anger flared in Rashad’s eyes. “If I didn’t have such an attractive offer for you from the Romulans, Spock, it would give me great pleasure to kill you where you stand. As it is, I shall simply turn you over to T’Vol. He likes to … break things.” He motioned to the guard behind him, and Spock realized that T’Vol was the one who had been so methodically brutalizing the man in the palace.

“A moment, T’Vol.” Rashad stopped the menacing guard with an indolent motion of his hand. “I wish Kyra to see this. She would do well to mark the futility of opposing me.” He nodded to the guard nearest the cot. “Revive her.”

The guard’s face was alarmed at Kyra’s unresponsiveness. “Your Excellency – I think she’s dead!”

“Impossible!” Rashad turned toward the cot, and Spock leaped at him, connecting solidly with Rashad’s shoulder. They spun into T’Vol, and the three crashed to the floor.

T’Vol twisted toward Spock with a roar, but he planted a boot squarely in the giant’s face. Spock rolled to his feet, hauling Rashad up by the back of his tunic and propelled him into the second guard, who wavered with his phaser drawn, afraid to fire into the tangle of bodies. T’Vol clawed at his eyes, blinded by blood, and Spock wrenched the phaser away from his belt and fired at the guard by Kyra’s cot. The man vaporized. Spock’s thumb felt for the stun setting and found none. He dodged behind T’Vol, his hand seeking and finding the crucial spot for the nerve-pinch, and as the man went down, Rashad dived for the door. The second guard presented a far more dangerous target as he aimed at Spock, who twisted away as he sent his own deadly beam home.

He thrust the phaser into his belt and picked up the first guard’s weapon as he crossed to the cot. He shook Kyra’s shoulders, and when she did not respond, felt for a pulse in her throat. It was there, faintly. He pulled her to a sitting position and shook her again, and she opened her eyes groggily.

“On your feet. We’re getting out of here.”

She shook her head and closed her eyes.

“Come on,” he said, and pulled her up, but she slipped from his grasp as an explosion rocked the room. He ran to the window and pulled himself up.

Three photon-armed tanks lumbered toward P’mie, flanked by caissons bearing phaser cannon. An air-car settled behind the tank, and he caught the flash of a copper-haired figure in the dark gold pullover of Starfleet Command. Kirk! That meant the Romulan ship was gone – probably with Rashad’s advisors.

The tank belched another photon missile, and it crashed against an energy field, bathing the landscape in its blue-white shower.

“The field,” Kyra had said. “Not even a mouse…”

Not a mouse, perhaps, but a steady barrage of photons and phasers could, even it if meant reducing P’mie – and everyone in it – to a pile of disembodied atoms.

Kyra had pushed herself up on the cot.

“Can you travel?”

“I think so. What’s going on?”

“Your army is attacking us – with some help from the _Enterprise_. We must either contact them or effect our escape. I am not sanguine about either prospect.”

“All right.” She stood up unsteadily, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world for him to put a supporting arm about her waist.

A rumble came from below them as the Wolves prepared to return the fire. Another blast of blue-white brilliance bathed the room.

“The weaponry center must be under us. We have to get down there.” He half-led, half-carried her through the door and across the hallway to a turbolift.

The doors slid open on two guards whose faces barely had time to register surprise before Spock dispatched them both. The control panel of the lift was marked with symbols, and Kyra keyed one of them. Spock handed her the second phaser. “Can you use this?”

She nodded.

“See that you do. Your assistance would be most appreciated.”

She flashed him a faint grin as the doors slid open. The fortress trembled under another blast, and the guards at the doorway were glancing apprehensively at the ceiling, which was their last mistake. Spock took one, then the other as Kyra froze on the phaser.

“I’m sorry. I’ve never … killed anyone before.” Her eyes were frightened.

“We shall have a long discussion on the ethics of necessity,” Spock said, “at some other time. If it makes you feel any better, I am told that death by phaser is quite painless.:

The hallway was empty, and he pulled her out of the lift.

“Against the wall – like this,” he said, noting with some satisfaction that these doors did not swing treacherously – they slid, as proper doors were supposed to. These, however, would have to be opened in a less conventional manner. He thumbed the phaser to its widest beam and blasted them open, swinging into the room before the dust settled and resetting the weapon. There were perhaps 15 men in the room. Two of them had the presence of mind – or lack of it – to reach for their weapons. Spock eliminated the first, then saw the second go down as Kyra began to fire. The others abandoned their consoles, diving for cover.

Rashad was making a dash for another door, and Spock dropped the phaser as he dived after him, barely catching the man’s belt in his fingers. Rashad twisted and cuffed Spock in the head, but the Vulcan pulled him down. Rashad scuttled away, reaching for the abandoned phaser, but Kyra’s booted foot came down hard on his wrist. Spock hauled him up and flung him against a wall, his hand closing on the rebel’s throat.

“Order your men to surrender!”

Rashad bucked against him and he closed his fingers slowly, seeing the man’s face take on a tinge of blue as the breath went out of him.

“The Romulans—” he began hoarsely.

“Your friends have departed,” Spock said. “They know when to cut their losses. There is no place in the Empire for a petty dictator whose coup has failed.”

Rashad’s eyes darted about the room, as if he expected to find the Romulans there.

“You have two choices, Rashad. You can surrender now and be transported to the dubious comforts of a penal colony. Or you can let them batter this fortress down around your head.” As if in punctuation, the room trembled under another barrage. “You will survive, Rashad. I shall see to that. As I shall see you placed in the deepest, darkest dungeon on this planet. A tiny one, Rashad. Smaller than the tunnel. So small you will be able to reach out and touch the stones.” He could feel the panic beginning in the man, and he pressed harder. His voice was low, meant only for Rashad, and there was a tone in it that echoed a time when Spock’s ancestors had been more savage than the Romulans themselves. The sound of it shocked and disturbed him even as the words came. “It is hard to breathe, is it not? With all that stone above you, and no way out.”

“No!” Rashad roared, and tried to twist away.

Spock jerked him away from the wall and turned him to face the room, his forearm tight against Rashad’s larynx.

One of the Wolves vaulted over a console, phaser in hand, and the beam from Kyra’s weapon caught him in mid-jump. There was a decided air of uncertainty in the room, then Wolves began to rise slowly, dropping their weapons.

Pushing Rashad in front of him, Spock crossed to the communications console and keyed open a hailing frequency.

“Spock here, Captain. Rashad has a message for you.” He loosened his hold somewhat.

Rashad hesitated, tensed. Then he saw the faces of his men and heard the low hoarse voice that might have come from the suddenly satanic figure behind him, or might have come from his own mind. He would never be sure. “They’ve left you, Rashad. The pack cannot protect you now. You will be alone there, in the dark. Under all that stone.”

Kirk’s voice boomed over the speaker. “We’re waiting for your message, Rashad.” There was ice in the sound of it.

The rebel cleared his throat. “The garrison of “P’mie … wishes to … surrender,” he whispered hoarsely.

# # #

Spock caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the ornate mirror as he waited for Princess Kyra. The Starfleet dress uniform always distressed him vaguely; he felt it was somehow an affront to his dignity. He was also uncomfortable with his function for the evening. The proper escort for the soon-to-be-crowned Matriarch of Eos would have been Captain Kirk. But instead of being miffed by the slight, Kirk’s voice when he relayed the message from the palace had been full of barely concealed amusement. The Vulcan sighed. Sometimes he felt totally incapable of understanding humans.

“Mr. Spock, you look positively resplendent,” Kyra said as she entered the room.

“As do you, Princess.” He made a slight bow to the slim figure in the misty sparkling gown, and offered his arm.

“I wish to speak to you before we go. Commander P’lef tells me that you have refused the Commendation of the Two Moons. It is our highest citation, and one seldom offered to an outworlder.”

“I am sorry, Princess, but Starfleet does not permit its officers to accept such recognition.”

She took his hand and looked up at him. “Suppose you were not a Starfleet officer.” It was not a question.

“Then I should not have been on Eos at all.” He removed his hand quietly. He did not want to have to answer the question he had felt her forming. It would be demeaning for both of them.

He knew full well what she wanted, and there had been a moment when their minds were linked when he had wanted it, too. But her price was too high. Her price was not only what he was now, but what untold generations of his Vulcan forbearers had struggled to become. He had killed for her, without even the passion of pon farr to excuse it, and he had taken pleasure in that killing; had felt the rise of an overpowering malevolence in him when his hand closed on Rashad’s throat. He could not take what she offered without losing himself.

“I believe they are waiting for us,” he said.

“Yes. I believe they are.” Her face told him she had read his answer, and his reasons. The royal mask descended. “It is time Eos had a Matriarch again.”

And Matriarch she was, every inch regal through the interminable banquet, the florid toasts, the stiffly formal dancing. She gave formal, careful farewells to the _Enterprise_ officers as they left, and accepted their best wishes with a carefully controlled smile. Only when it was over, when she was escorting Kirk, Spock, and McCoy to the courtyard from where they would beam back to the ship, did she speak to him as less than a ruler.

She drew him a little away from the others. “I wish you would reconsider.”

There was no answer he could give her.

“Being with you is like meeting a countryman in an alien place – speaking the same language, sharing the same customs.”

“But we do not.”

“We could.” She was composed, unreadable. She might be intimating everything – or nothing.

“No.” He softened somewhat. “And for that, you have my deepest regrets.”

She reached out a hand in supplication and he touched her fingers with his own in the Vulcan gesture he had denied her before.

“Goodbye, Your Matros. Live long and prosper.”

She gave him a long amethyst gaze for the last time. “Goodbye, Spock.” And turned away, leaving the courtyard.

McCoy’s face was incredulous as he turned to Kirk. “Jim, did I just see what I just saw?”

“No. You didn’t.”

“But he – that’s the way Ambassador Sarek and his wife—”

Kirk’s hazel eyes showed the quicksilver glint McCoy knew so well, and the smile that danced at the corner of the mouth told him he wasn’t going to get a straight answer. “It’s personal, Bones. Spock would prefer not to discuss it.” He was still smiling as he snapped open his communicator. “Kirk here. Ready to beam up.”

McCoy felt the familiar tingle as the transporter process began, and watched Kirk’s form begin to shimmer out. He got the distinct impression that the last part of Kirk to fade was, like Alice’s Cheshire Cat, that smile.

# # # # #

**Author's Note:**

> While not technically a part of the "House of Mirrored Faces" series, Kyra shows up there in a fairly significant role.


End file.
